to deny the sickness that i've been living in and under is stupid. it is a soul sickness, a spiritual ich, of a sort, that has been rotting me from the inside out. it manifests externally as additional weight, but it also manifests as side effects from that weight; exhaustion, lack of energy, lack of libido, muddled thoughts, plans for activity that die in the brain they are conceived in (stillborn synaptic conversions). i have been going down for the better part of the last year.
did it start with the cancer diagnosis? likely not. i think it started with the realization that i may spend the rest of my life alone. if i'm brutally honest with myself, i can admit that i hate this kind of life, though i don't hate life. i hate waking and laying down alone. i hate sitting in this space, no one to talk to, no one to eat with, no one to share the day's events with. i hate having only my friend Lonnie to talk to on a regular basis. it feels like i'm living in a vacuum. and i hate that i put so much weight on my friend, so much responsibility. it doesn't matter that friends tend to friends; what happened to me that i am so alone now?
so i think i can go back to when i had hope in a better future than i do now. two years ago, i was writing, producing, learning, developing new ways of doing things, thinking of expanding the palate to include more ideas. two years ago, i was with Rachel, i was thinking in terms of taking my art across the region, sowing seeds of the Z Esoterica and redefining myself again. two years later, i'm closing in on 400 pounds again, my sponsor and little brother are dead, i've got nothing close to a finished book, no music, no new pictures, no new videos. i work, i come home, i pass out. i eat too much carb-laden shit, i don't exercise, i don't even masturbate anymore. my life is the hollowed-out remnants of a once vibrant tree, struck by the lightning of my own fears and burrowed out by rats and squirrels. it is a sad thing, and yet, i created it, so i must want things to be this way.
i have been to the doctor yesterday. what's so funny is, my numbers are good. my blood work was great. my blood pressure was nice, my glucose number was excellent for that late in the day and my A1C was good. all i need to do is start changing the shit that i know how to change, and have faith that the rest will fall in place, and things would get better. and i won't. and i don't know why. and that shit is driving me crazy. why won't i walk between runs at work? why won't i go upstairs and turn on some music and dance? why won't i use my office? do i really believe that there is no point to it? i gave a client's father my card yesterday. it had my cell number written on the back, so he can call or text if the Friday situation happens again. he would have been a great person to speak to; got money, got influence, love to read. i couldn't even represent my work well verbally, it's been so long since i've spoken about my writing. sad shit.
something's got to change. either die or live, that's the fucking choice now. dying means pull the plug, stop dicking around with this half-life that i've engineered for myself. living...ah. living means do something, move something, write something, sweat, cum, breathe, walk, run, dance, sing. DO SOMETHING! that's living. and if i'm not going to do that, then i'm going to do the opposite.
call or fold, motherfucker.
i love Jehovah, but i can see my lack of gratitude today, and i'll not hypocricize myself today.
The Dining Room
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